Thursday, April 29, 2010

animal husbandry.

this isn't where my surly ass sits, but isn't that the friendly face you'd love to see telling you your dog has inoperable bone cancer and that you owe me $1900? man, i'm cute as shit. sweet, too. and it's a good thing i'm so fucking charming. because i really should be fired. i cannot get my stupid ass out of my bed and out of my house in the morning to save my stupid life. i usually wake up before the alarm because my stupid catlarm doesn't know how to shut the fuck up and stop walking all over my stupid face, but then i just lie there. staring at whatever is right there. sometimes i'll put my ipod on and listen to something that rocks, but even then i just can't seem to MOVE. and when i finally

i have to stop here and note for one second how much i hate my stupid hair and how looking at this picture laura took in december makes my fingers itch with yearning to call yosef and schedule a time to have this long-ass shit shaved off. it also makes me want to tickle laura to death or whatever other shit she would hate, because she just walked her mean ass up here and looked at me gazing wistfully at my easily-managed shorn head and said, "if you cut your hair i win the bet. and you KNOW how much i love to win." and i do know how much she loves winning. especially when it's at my expense. and she never wants me to fucking get anything. FOR INSTANCE, right fucking now there is some frontline or interceptor or heartgard promotion for which we can earn prizes either individually or as a group, and a couple weeks ago i walked around the corner as laura was discussing said promotion with ken behind my back, trying to arrange it so that we'd win things as a group. sneaky. because you don't want to know more about this bullshit than you really have to, let's just say that I wanted to do it INDIVIDUALLY. because i would totally win. duh. i mean, i win things. and i'm really fucking good at my job. plus bossy and manipulative. needless to say, laura's lovely group sharing idea won out over my scheming, selfish greed, so now we're doing this shit as a group and that sucks because have you ever tried to divide anything between more than two people? especially when those people are childish and immature and named samantha? this is going to be a nightmare. which is why she should have just let me win.

SO, since she defeated me (and fucking gloated) about that merial shit (you kids are heartworm testing your dogs, yes? and giving them preventative? don't make me get my belt out), i CANNOT lose this bet about the hair. even if it is killing me and requires that i set my alarm that i don't get up for ten minutes earlier. le womp. my hair really is glorious in a way that you'd have to see me in person to fully appreciate, but i am lazy. fuck, man. i just spent (i am not kidding) seventy fucking dollars on bottles of paul mitchell the conditioner (that leave-in business is the jam and makes my hair look so nice that bitches are constantly walking up to me and PUTTING THEIR FUCKING HANDS IN IT), so it would be really fiscally irresponsible for me to PAY for one of my hot dudes to CUT the hair that i just spent over a hundred and fifty dollars on MAINTAINING. because i had to go to bravco to buy two bottles of terax and a kerastase weekly treatment masque and this goddamned aveda clarifier and some lush soak and float and i obviously have to stop saying that i am such a dude because it is TOTALLY UNTRUE as no heterosexual man on the planet would ever spend that much time and expendable income on shit for his stupid fucking hair.

i was really late for work this morning because i was really drunk last night. forty-five minutes late, to be precise. and i really don't know how my man is going to react when i come in. jimbo's cool and he understands because he likes to get drunk, too (he also has busted-up guts, we're like soulmates over here). but i set a bad example, which he has told me maybe 800 times over the last eight years. he's usually a huge whore and says something along the lines of, "glad you could join us, samantha" and yells in my ear and flashes the lights off and on and bangs dog bowls on the counter to fuck up my chances of riding my hangover in peace. he's cool, though. buys us booze and beer from the liquor store next door and drinks it with us while bitches are all, "can i get tuffy's anal glands expressed?" pffft. call your groomer. bitch, we DRUNK.

but sometimes he's awesome in a weird way, like the time i was barfing some jaeger shots into the dental sink at seven-twenty in the morning and he stood next to me bitching about my not having reconciled the credit card totals the night before. while i was throwing up. in my coat. standing next to him. into the sink where dogs get their teeth cleaned. and it splashed on him. and i had totally balanced those fucking totals but he doesn't understand how his own accounting works which is why although i am quite possibly the surliest, meanest, bossiest, loudest, back-talkiest, facebooking while i should be teaching people about the life cycle of a whipworm and the resurgence of leptospirosis amongst the canine population of the chicagoland area-est snatch on earth, i'm never going to walk in late to a pink slip. i cost this dude more than you want to fucking know, and am often his worst employee. but he fucking loves me. even when i was late as hell he came over to me and asked how my golf game was going.

here's something, white people, stop joking around with black people about golf. that tiger woods shit hurt our collective feelings.

when i started here i didn't know shit about animals. scratch that. i didn't know that white people in the suburbs spend more on their animals in three months than i paid com ed last year. and it's funny that a lot of people who don't give a fuck about pets (kill yourselves) think that what i do all day is bullshit. i got a text from #2 yesterday that said, in part, "i don't understand why you'd ever work with animals. i don't believe in pets." then i said, "do you believe in god?" and he responded, lightning fast, "OF COURSE." and i said, "well I don't believe in THAT."

just a note, all caps while texting equals FIGHTING WORDS in the samantha irby textiquette handbook. too many emoticons are a no-no for anyone over sixteen years of age. and as the debate rages around me, i maintain that proper grammar and spelling are a REQUIREMENT. except if you are drunk, because if you've ever gotten a text from my tipsy ass i'm sure you couldn't even fucking read that shit with all the misspellings and wayward LOLs. i was gchatting two-tone yesterday and kept fucking it up (i hadn't even been drinking!) because some bitch kept asking me about her kennel's bordetella policy (the nerve of her) and refused to comprehend that the kennel can demand you do that shit as often as they like. if you don't like it, go somewhere else.

can i just say something that i don't understand and wears me out every single fucking day? i know you bitches don't have DVM licenses, and i only have a tangential one from working in this bastard industry for almost the entirety of my adult life, but if you have had your pet for more than a year, why don't you remember any of the shit you have to DO for it? can you tell me that? why?

why don't you know that it is illegal for you to not have your animal vaccinated against rabies? (and if you don't believe that shit is real, there is an INDOOR CAT showing signs of being rabid in our hospital RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE) or that the duration of heartworm season in your climate? why are you surprised that your unneutered cat pisses on everyfuckingthing? why don't you know shit about fleas? pay some fucking attention when you are paying a dude sixty bucks for twenty minutes of his time. i had cats before i worked here, and i knew when those bitches were due for shit and what to feed them and all that. why don't YOU know?

if helen keller were diagnosed with kidney failure or diabetes, i would remember that when i had to go to the vet to get her fucking food. (really, i would euthanize her ass because that feral cunt would NEVER hold still long enough for me to do LRS or glucose checks at home. she would rip my fucking face off.) we see dozens of people all day who can't remember if their cat needs weight loss food? or maybe food for stones? no, maybe it's that low residue food? oh, you know. the one i always get.

yes. this is the best and busiest multi-million dollar practice on the north shore/north side of the city, and i remember, despite the hundreds of bitches i talk to every single day, what kind of food you need to get for the dog that you live with whom you buy food for that you scoop into his bowl twice or maybe even three times a day. let me get right on that. and yes, i remember what medication you switched to six months ago but decided to get an alternative online...

HERE IS THE THING ABOUT ONLINE PHARMACIES: they are unregulated. and i know, they have commercials and shit. amazing. REVOLUTIONARY. so that shit is totally legit. for reals. YOU ARE WRONG. because even though i've got "a headache" and laura is scowling at you and betty is giggling nonstop, we get our products from the companies that manufacture them. and so does YOUR vet. which means they are GUARANTEED. to WORK. because that chinese topspot you just slathered all over your dog IS NOT. which is why he got lyme disease. i know it's cheap, but IF YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO HAVE A PET YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE ONE.

people always think they're doing some animal a goddamned favor by bringing him to live in their broke-ass houses. sorry to be the one to break it to you, but if you need a discount, you shouldn't have a pet. if you have to buy cheap food, you shouldn't have a pet. if your "money is tight," you shouldn't have a pet. if you can't feed yourself, you shouldn't have a pet. if you can't take it somewhere in the middle of the night because it fell, or ate a plastic bag, or cut its leg open, or started screaming in pain, you shouldn't have a pet. and it sucks, but we witness EVERY SINGLE DAY people who take shit care of a life they couldn't afford to be responsible for in the first place. and i don't work in a goddamned pediatrician's office.

don't let these activists fool you. animals cost money. you have to feed them. and walk them. and buy them toys. and pick up their shit. and pay doctors and technicians and assistants and the CLIENT SERVICE DIRECTOR (ahem, my fancy title). and it's almost guaranteed that the more unprepared (i.e. DESTITUTE) you are, the more likely it is that you're going to end up adopting a dog with a heart murmur and untreated thyroid issue that looks normal on the outside but really is a ticking financial time bomb. laura and i were talking the other day about how fucking awful it is when people are screaming at us (literally, mind you) about how much shit costs. and i'm not an asshole (yes, i am), but i wouldn't have a pet if when she got sick i couldn't text her doctor to come to my apartment. all of the shit i steal is exxxpensive for you regular people, and more often than not we listen to people justify opting out of some pricey necessity.

and i'm not talking extravagant luxuries. i mean bloodwork and shit. physicals. VACCINES. if you've never watched a dog die slowly and painfully from parvo (which is preventable) consider yourself lucky. we hear people all the time piss and moan about paying for some shit that costs seventeen fucking dollars that is the difference between normal life and agonizing death. it really makes me want to kill someone. really. i can't even tell you some of the horrors i've witnessed that people have inflicted on their unsuspecting, undeserving, sweet and gentle animal friends.

that's part of the reason i was so fucking pissed when that idiot bitch popped off at the mouth about my supposed mistreatment of animals. motherfucker, i've seen a thirty pound german shepherd before. starved to death by some old dude who wanted to "teach him a lesson." do you know how many dead animals we see every day? how many who are starving? or have untreated diseases? broken legs, missing eyes, filled with maggots, you name it. and we're in a wealthy suburb! my first year i saw a cat that had fallen out of a window without a screen and impaled himself on an iron fence. because his owner thought he wanted some fresh air. on the fifth floor of an apartment building. fuck.

and put your dog on a goddamned leash. i am not kidding when i tell you that this woman let her dog run from the car to our door except, wait for it, he didn't really know where he was going! and saw something shiny in the middle of the busy ass street we're on! and he ran out into traffic after it! and got run over by a car! I GOT THAT DOG'S BRAINS ON MY SHIRT. because his mommy was an idiot who couldn't be bothered to affix a LEASH to a COLLAR. it is infuriating.

speaking of caring, get a trainer. thinking it's cute doesn't mean you love it. you need to teach it things. and care for it properly. and clean up after it. ugh, and enough already with the raw diets. this time of year drives me apeshit, because we get slammed and are crazy busy and dumb pieces of garbage run out and get animals then drop them in our laps and get huffy when we can't immeditely fix them. for free. last week i celebrated my eight year anniversary by stepping in a pile of shit with ascarids sticking out of it and getting into a screaming match with my boss who sometimes is not as cool as i made him seem earlier. fucking bonehead. every year around this time i start reevaluating what the fuck i do and why i do it and even though i want to tie you morons up with lupine collars and glue soft paws on you and cover you with puppy pads and set you on fire, i really do like my fucking job. we do good work here. and we're not really drunk all the time. well. not them.

sorry. some bitch asked me "what do you do for a living?" yesterday.

this is my bitch. helen keller.
luxuriating because her life is so fucking hard.
my vaccinated, sublimely cared for non-human companion. isn't she lovely?

and THAT is my bed. i know you want in.


Wednesday, April 28, 2010


i like a manly man who talks shit.

nothing tickles me more than a big swinging dick who talks loud and makes jokes and tries to tell me what to do.

last night i was downtown. standing on the sidewalk at the corner of ohio and lasalle eating a burning hot merkts burger from lasalle power company in the middle of post-rush hour, early dinner-date traffic. i don't believe in eating outside. seriously. and everyone who knows me KNOWS THAT. i'm sure two dozen people had heart attacks reading that i ate a cheeseburger on the street. streets are fucking dirty. and smelly. and pigeons, flies, car exhaust, and other poop-covered carcinogenic toxic pollutants are flying around getting all over your buffalo wings or whatever. then there is the problem of messiness, and what to do with one's dirty-ass grimy fingers and mouth. wipe them on your pants or sleeve? pshaw. how is THAT going to look while standing in line outside bar deville later in the evening? fucking awful, that's how.

plus, most people look totally fucking gross while eating seated at a table with available napkins and wet wipes and maybe even a bib. it's nearly impossible not to look like disgusting goddamned pigpen while slathered in barbecue sauce and licking your fingers on the bus. your fingers that have touched filthy money, your dirty transit card, supergross key ring, your swine flu-covered debit card, a whore with ebola, two snotrag seven year olds, your dog's poop bag, your shoelaces, the sink in a gas station bathroom, a nasty condom, and a used syringe since the last time you washed your fucking hands. and even then you probably only did a perfunctory rinse because you wanted to hurry up and get out of the bathroom before your coworkers realized IT WAS YOU who took a shit and didn't replace the charmin.

so i just don't eat outside, okay? unless it's an emergency. i'm still on this liquid business for two meals a day because i still am about to fucking DIE (i sort of wish i could just get it over with i'm really fucking tired of my life right now), but i can have a little meat and a little bread once a day. and i wasn't prepared, because PREPARED is something responsible adult people are, and i am not amongst their ranks. want to know what's in my fridge right now? not a goddamned thing. so making a dinner for myself out of the three pieces of salami i have left from the good italian butcher and whatever rye crackers or le sueur peas are in my cupboard wasn't really going to happen.

i went to meet cara downtown to have a drink with her before a blind date she was going on, and as i was on the train it hit me what a stupid fucking thing i'd been cajoled into doing. helping my stupid friend waste the time before her fabulous dinner at opera with some handsome stranger, then getting back on the fucking train to go home to my evil feral cat and phone that never rings. awesome.

so cara was late and i was hungry and i wandered into lpc, which i've read about but never gone into for fear of being douchebagged to fucking death. it wasn't so bad, because it was early on a tuesday, but i decided i couldn't stay in there the second i heard a dude shout, "bro, did you get those cubs tickets?" over my fucking head. so i took my burger out to the sidewalk. it's not that cold, and i have this beautiful coat that i love so very much and soon it's going to be too hot to wear it without looking like some sort of vagrant. i keep two bottles of purell in my day bag, and i beat the germs crawling all over my grubby mitts to within an inch of their lives before opening my delicious, steamy beef. which i kept wrapped so i could maintain something resembling nice, clean neatness.

it's worth mentioning that i looked pretty fucking hot yesterday,  dark red-lipped and shiny crimson manicured nails left over from the weekend and not chipped too fucking badly. and even my turtlenecks have cleavage, so you can only imagine how my party shit looks. tits on fucking TOAST, baby. or, in this case, a garlic bun. so i'm standing there, minding my own 100% angus business and thinking about how stupid every fucking day of my life always is, when this hugely tall giant-type fella sidled up next to me.

believe me when i tell you that no one ever is in love at first sight with me EVER, so my immediate thought was that he was going to try to take my cheeseburger. my cheeseburger that i just paid seven thousand dollars for because everymotherfuckingthing south of fullerton and north of 15th has a "you're an idiot for buying anything downtown" surcharge attached. i thought, "shitballs, i am going to have to swallow this bad girl WHOLE before this asshole takes her!" and took a giant bite, eyeing him suspiciously.

"you seem like the kind of woman who would enjoy a whole lot of man as well," he said.

WHAT?! that was fucking brilliant, mister! gold star for the best making me laugh semi-pickup line i've heard in a while! i didn't even say shit, just laughed and kept chewing and dug one of my cards from the recesses of the fucking garbage bag i carry around as a purse. i'm incredibly self-sufficient, and the way that trait manifests itself in the most obvious way is in the shit i choose to carry around with me at all times.

for instance, i always carry with me: a book (something that, at a glance, proves my smartness and awesomeness to casual passersby who probably don't give a fuck anyfuckingway; right now i am reading "mathilda savitch" by victor lodato but i think we might have already established that you hoes don't give a fuck about what i read or listen to so i should just shut up but i WON'T), many bottles of purell, two ipods, a le sportsac full of makeup, a ziploc bag full of cereal, a notebook (i like to pretend i write shit down), a cell phone that doesn't work anymore, my real cell phone, so many keys, a gigantic red leather coach wallet that has seen better days but that bitch cost me two hundred bucks and i just can't let it go, a dozen inky black pens, a notebook because i read somewhere that writers carry notebooks with them at all times (pretentious bastards), a book of fill-in puzzles, and a spare pair of hotsox. it's horrifying.

BUT. you'll never have to worry about me chapping your dick off because you've left me to wait somewhere and i'm so bored by my own thoughts that i can't sit alone for five minutes. first of all, i should probably say that will NEVER happen because i am late 99.9% of the fucking time. but just in case i beat you wherever it is we've decided to go, i can entertain myfuckingself. the shit rattling off the walls of my brain is usually enough to keep me occupied for at least a half hour, but if it isn't i can just read my book. or listen to that new rufus wainwright i just downloaded. or finish a puzzle because i always start them and abandon ship halfway through. or i can text someone less awesome about how exciting my life of sitting around waiting for shit to happen is.

i also have a baggie full of business cards. because investing in a twenty dollar case is obviously too much of a hassle. forget that i spend large amounts of my day ordering shit online that looks cute but fits wrong or isn't the right color or smells funny because i am incapable of shopping for clothing in an actual brick-and-mortar store. i could get a cardholder in three clicks of a mouse, yet i choose instead to walk around with a holey plastic bag that would be better served stuffed with cashews or spare buttons, not glossy black ambassadors of myself and my art. i have two kinds, ones with my phone number and blog, and ones with just my name and email. those are for dudes, as NO ONE ON EARTH would put his penis near me after reading what i write here. not a single one. nor should any of them, really.

so i laid an email-only card on him and said, with cheese i could feel congealing on my face, "i'm bored with stupid dudes right now, but you can email me if you feel like it." so far he hasn't felt like it, which seems to be the way things are going for me these days.

while we were standing there he asked me, "what do you like in a man?" and i actually took a few minutes to think about it rather than blurting out "large testicles" or something else dumb as hell. too bad my brain doesn't work that way.

"i like a man who doesn't know shit about mascara," i said through a mouthful of burger (that thing was fucking HUGE). "i want someone who thinks i am an exotic creature of mystery, who doesn't know shit about handbags or expensive sunglasses or italian shampoo. i don't like it when a dude knows that my lipstick color today is different from the one i was wearing yesterday."

"i like the lipstick you have on," he said. "red suits you. although, it sort of looks like the meat is bleeding all over your face. do you want me to go in and get you some napkins?"

the truth is, i had a pocketful of napkins, but i was tired then and am still of embarrassing myself in the presence of an attractive dude, so i said "yes" and hailed a cab as soon as he walked inside. which probably explains my vacant inbox. but i'm sick of making a giant ass out of my giant ass and i had the cabbie just drive around for a few minutes before dropping me off IN THE EXACT SAME SPOT. he gave me the "bitch, are you crazy?" face but complied nonetheless, and i tipped him double what his trip was worth. as if that would somehow delete the insanity. pshaw.

i listened to cara nervously babble for an hour and a half about a dude who sounded so incredible that it was impossible that he was even real. and thank god for all your iphones and fancy gadgets, as i got to confirm his realness through reading his facebook interests ("building things with my hands," HOT) and look at no fewer than seventy-five pictures of his seriously good-looking face. all while hearing about some shit called venture capital (?) and whatever else he does to make a million dollars an hour. you know my last genuine romantic petition was from a fucking security guard, right? just checking. don't fucking forget that tragic shit.

eventually i started to think about smashing a vodka bottle on the bar and dragging the jagged end across my wrist the long way, so we split a cab to the restaurant and i lived it up aristocrat-style by taking that shit ALL THE WAY HOME. seriously, lifestyles of the rich and famous over here. that was a twenty-five dollar cab ride. (i should really consider moving to a more happening part of the city. sheesh.) she texted me before i even got upstairs to tell me 1 that he was better-looking in person 2 that she saw him valet a porsche and 3 that i really should have ended it all with that vodka bottle idea back at the bar.

when amanda and i went to that beach house show a few weeks ago, by the way that was one of the most amazing shows i have ever been to in my life, i was wedged next to this weird fratty-looking dude in a peach popped-collar polo who looked like he'd be better served upside-down over a frosty keg than at a moody hipster concert. even more disconcerting, he knew all of the WORDS. and was singing them so loud! i didn't even know what to do with myself. it was like a monkey just strode out of the forest and asked for a gin and tonic.

that made me coin my new favorite term, "fratrosexual." a dude who looks like a frat boy but sings along to bands like beach house at the top of his lungs. we followed him to a bar after the show, and i was mesmerized by his double-shirtedness (why are you dudes always wearing seven shirts?) and confounded by the beach house poster he's bought and was CARRYING WITH HIM. amanda sort of wanted to fuck that dude, while i thought he was amusing and confusing and should be in a lab somewhere getting his brain (and his closet) picked apart and analyzed by medical professionals.

i hate confusing dudes. why y'all gotta be like that? are you gay or what? do you want to have sex with me or not? i can't even tell you all of the mental energy i've expended trying to figure out some goddamned shit a dude did or had to say. the picture above is of me and the debonair dlv, the least confusing man i have ever fucking encountered in my entire fucking life. he eats meat, drinks beers and the occasional manhattan, bangs girls (although just one at the moment), dresses fly, and listens to cool music. and he's funny and smart and reads good books. and never have i ever, in the four years i have known him, wondered if he was a closet queen. or not laughed at his jokes. or thought he was a stupid motherfucking letdown of an asshole. i don't do this often, because i hate dudes and want most of you to die, but dlv is the non-bitch of the week. maybe the month. of all time, perhaps.

that said, that picture was taken as my tender flesh was being fried to a crisp last summer at the gay pride parade. sigh. no homo.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

legalized prostitution.

lucky for you bitches, i have two dates this week. thank whatever fictional deity you believe in, lovers, because he/she/it just threw me a couple of bones. BONERS.

ugh, i was just about to resort to writing about what the stupid cat does all day. vagina hollering makes for much better bloggerating.

so you know i'm the coolest bitch you know, right? this is totally fucking ridiculous, but i got TWO emails last week from young bitches being like, "we want to be just like you." now i know that they were really forty-year-old men who live in their mother's basements, because anyone can get kittenpower426 or brittniluvsboys as a gmail address or whatever, but for now let's pretend that girls who can't do long division and haven't yet started to menstruate are sitting around listening to owl city and trying to figure out how to be a mean-ass drunken asshole with a smart mouth and a shit disease.

before i forget, let's talk for one second about how i just wrote my book pitch and am about to email that shit to an editor at a fancy publishing house. make no mistake that fame and fortune will change me, and that i will use whatever power, riches, and influence i happen to gain to DESTROY MY FUCKING ENEMIES. get in my bed while you still can, dudes. because once i'm famosa i'm not going to kick forest whitaker out for YOU. (god, i still love him so fucking much. for him, i would bear offspring. large-headed, ham-fisted, cock-eyed, oscar-winning little offspring filled with excrement and searing rage.)

i know it makes normal human beings uncomfortable when i talk about this, but i am DESPERATELY in love with forest whitaker. he is my angelina jolie, my dream celebrity who is so steaming hot that i'd fuck him in the middle of a daycare at two in the afternoon. he's so perfect; brooding, soft-spoken, contemplative, serious, sensitive, and MEATY. plus, he's handsome. and i KNOW you bitches don't see it, but he really fucking is.

i just want to snuggle him and listen to him talk about how his day was. and you know how i feel about listening to some stupid ass dude blathering on about some bullshit i don't care about. maybe that's how i will know i'm in love if it ever happens to me, when i don't get irritated out of my mind listening to some asshole talk about his silly shit all the time. but seriously, i was watching panic room the other day (again) and i was mooning around my place like an idiot, daydreaming about making him soup and washing the stains out of his shirt collars. (akilah is always calling him "blackneck" because she is a haterrrrr. he can't help it! he's got a lot of greasy neck meat.)

my short list of wants if i am allowed my fifteen minutes of fame. umm, marginal fame, as writery bitches never really BLOW UP:
-dinner at table 52.
-black quilted chanel tote.
-unlimited supply of kiehl's musk oil (uh oh my secret is out).
-new bed.
-someone to carry the cat litter upstairs because that shit is heavy.
-tacos and horchata.
-new immune system +/- new intestines.
-syringe full of ebola because i meant what i said about that enemy shit.
-wrigley field relocated to schaumburg.
-romantic weekend with forest whitaker.

a couple things: that kiehl's shit is REAL. i was on the train yesterday, and this dude who could have been a little hotter came up to me and said, "i just wanted to tell you that you smell amazing." and i smiled, because that shit is true. at work on saturday laurage said that i "always smell like exotic spices and oils." also true. even when i was in the hospital and the nurse was blowing EVERY SINGLE VEIN IN MY FUCKING ARM she was like, "can i ask what fragrance that is?" l'eau de prednisone, bitch. fix my shit and get me better.

i can't be nice, i just fucking can't. and i can't keep extending the benefit of the doubt to these halfwits. so i've decided that i'm going to lure my prey with my intoxicating mix of musk and spice (i'm not going to tell you what else is in my witches brew because i don't want you motherfuckers coming up with the antidote), then i'm going to molest and dispose of them and trap somebody else and do it all over again.

i'm counting on my concoction to woo forest. because really, i'm not that interesting. what am i going to say to fucking GHOST DOG?! seriously! he was on trapper john AND diff'rent strokes! is he really going to want to know what i ate for lunch or how i can't use a calendar and ended up bleeding all over my new underpants? HARDLY. on a related note, my period this month totally looked like barbecue sauce. for three whole days. weeeeird. anyway forest, since i know deep down in my burned-out, charred soul that you're reading this, let's lay around my apartment and watch phone booth and vantage point and drink punch until we die from loving each other too much. heart.

what i be doing. so these girls wanted to know, like, what i DO and shit. when i'm not working eighty hours a week and trying to fill up my nonexistent free time with shit to write about here. you know what i'm doing right now? blowing my goddamned eardrums out and drinking pamplemousse lacroix. through a straw. fun sam fact that you will probably interpret sexually: i prefer to drink beverages from a can, and i then prefer to drink through a straw. you can make whatever cocksucker joke makes your heart smile, but cans keep shit colder longer and straws prevent you from looking like some sloppy, wet-mouthed piglet. i buy fancy skinny straws, because that's the type of thing i do. BUT. i do not drink canned beer. i mean, COME ON. i told you already, i'm fancy.

i didn't work today, because fuck mondays, so here is my recipe for a sammy kind of day off:

get up at seven. feed cat, scoop shitbox. get laundry together. make some toast. take forty-seven pills. eat toast over sink. drink diet coke. through a straw. check overnight text messages from drunk idiots trying to get laid who haven't yet realized i am not booty call material. laugh hysterically at said messages. feel immediately let down by bleak romantic landscape. lie down with pillow over face to stave off mental collapse. sleep more.

try again at ten. take laundry downstairs. write blog. more diet cokes. download ghostland observatory album. reschedule doctor appointment. write $700 check to podiatrist that didn't really fix the foot. fuck around on facebook and dlisted. start book pitch. add to list of possible book titles. VAGINARRHEA is the early favorite. check bank balance. think about purchasing sweet new bed. read entire issue of marie claire on toilet. dishes. forget about laundry. post blog.

laundry finished by two. meet david for brunch aka drinks while still wearing jams. consider self SO SMART for only sleeping in all-black clothing, rendering real clothes unnecessary. smoothie, because don't forget i am dying. walk home. back in bed. sportscenter. judge mathis. remember handful of afternoon medicine and grudgingly get out of bed. fold two shirts before becoming irritated. bed. NAP.

bored yet? oh, no? awesome. when i got up i was in a crazy good mood, and i suddenly remembered that sunday night on the way to the sex show zoe and i were jamming our asses off to my new favorite jam of right now, "turn me away" by erykah badu. that shit is a JAM. i had a copy of her new album that the vampire had burned for me, and i took it along for the ride, during which we proceeded to listen to that song 800 times. or as many as we could fit from casa sam to the burlington. then we listened to it again on the way home. except the second time i was full of jack and coke and annoyed OUT OF MY MIND at dylan's drunk ass screaming in the back seat. zoe should have made that dude hitchhike.

the song is about a bitch who wants some money, pure and simple. "i want your money, gimme some," she purrs. or "can't lie to you honey, i just want your money." the track totally fucking jams, but it's also really mellow and pretty. you know how insane i get about music. i found that shit in my ipod and hooked it up to the stereo and listened to that shit on repeat for two hours. dancing around my apartment in bare feet and black pajamas. helen couldn't even be bothered with that shit. she went to sleep in the closet and avoid the crazy. it should go without saying, but go get that song. hurry up.

i keep telling you hoes that i'm over dudes, except for one i have a raging crush on at the moment, and i feel like my saturday date is about to get his feelings hurt. he's a dumb texter, and while maybe i shouldn't give any credence to that it sort of hurts my fucking eyeballs to read some misspelled, grammatically-incorrect, virtually indecipherable bullshit as it rapidly fills up my inbox. i've given up hope that someone awesome is going to darken my doorstep and make me laugh all day and not turn his nose up at whatever weird ass shit i'm listening to who likes my jokes and sends me flowers and wants to be more than my new best friend, and i have resigned to keep going out with dudes just because they ask me because every single post could devolve into bullet points of what the fuck i do every day and that would be TRAGIC. you will be clawing your eyes out by day four, wondering to yourselves "how many times can a bitch eat fucking lean cuisines?" A LOT, that's how many.

i used to watch gossip girl and wrestling on monday nights, but now i put some cute shit on and hightail it over to rachel's where she, amanda, and i talk shit about douchebags and drink vino. except i've been trying to curtail my drankin'. i'm old, man. and one of these days my drugs are going to contraindicate with my booze and i'm going to have a fucking stroke. and i wouldn't ordinarily care, but i know none of you pussies is going to have the onions to smother me with a pillow when i'm slack-jawed in a nursing home, droopy-eyed and unable to move my whole left side. and i refuse to live like that. (ps, i kind of miss HHH and john cena. shhh. don't tell.)

rachel was going through some dude shit, and to make her feel better (and myself feel worse) i read her the series of text messages my young suitor (jesus, he's YOUNG, and i swore i would never fucking do that again what the fuck is wrong with me this is so dumb and i don't even really want to be going out with him anyway) and i had exchanged. i will transcribe a few of them here, VERBATIM, even though they embarrass me to the point of being physically painful:

What u up 2....

What U doing....

DUDE. asking what i'm doing all the time is totally boring. i thought you were so hilarious?

Well y didnt u call me when I called u? :'(

waiting for a reason to call.

Ok. What reason.....

be interesting.

U are Very Funny aand Sexy....and I wanna know u...I like u and I wanna talk to U..... :p

i already know why i'm dope. what is interesting about YOU?

in response, i received two super-long, nearly-unintelligible messages that i refuse to re-type detailing his hard work and that he "has his own" and has "the most greatest mind setting you could ever want to know" and is "a great cat."

excellent. all this texting is wearing out my thumbs. let me know when you want to buy me a beer.

oh, eff you if you think i'm a bitch for posting this drivel.
THIS IS WHAT THE FUCK I'M TALKING ABOUT when i say there is a veritable wasteland of garbage out there that those of us with empty beds are trying to scavenge and pick through and bring home. reading this shit makes me fucking suicidal. THIS is what it's like to be sam, little girls. feel better about yourselves? i bet brittni's biology lab partner texts more coherent shit than this grown fucking man sent to me. i mean, is it too much to ask that a native speaker actually properly speak the language. god, i'm an asshole. blah.

pardon me for a second as i pull out my soapbox and climb aboard. you kids know me. you know how rad i am. and this dude is the kind of dude i constantly get trying to fill up my dance card on a saturday night. not some sparkling wit who knocks me dead with his jokes, but a motherfucker who probably lives on his mother's couch and is really excited by the prospect of hanging out with someone who buys her own fucking cereal. it's demoralizing and makes me wonder what the fuck is WRONG with me. blargh. i might start to cry.

i read this shit to gorge and ginge and ginge's immediate response was, "was he drunk?" i didn't think so, as the most offensive of the texts was sent at nine in the morning. gorge, who is internally tormented because she doesn't want to go on a second date with this boring dude who took her to deleece actually tried to make a case for this bullshit. she doesn't want a second date with a dude who wore a tucked-in shirt, but i'm supposed to holler at a troid who misuses ellipses and to whom i'll likely have to define any word with more than three syllables? mmmkay.

the commiserating was in full effect, as we bemoaned the fate of being sassy and smart and totally fucking awesome while fielding offers straight out of the bargain bin at the used man store. and i don't do vintage. i like my shit shiny and new. and smart. and hilarious. and articulate. fucking sigh, bitches. it is depressing in a way i'm not fully equipped to express. i was talking to dude #2 (nicknames once i decide in person how worthless they are) on the phone and he was sort of funny and sort of smart and sort of NOT PAYING ANY ATTENTION TO ME AT ALL. maybe he was working? or playing on the xbox? but if you're balls-deep in level nine of death con dragon destroyer (i don't know what those fucking games are called), why would you pick up the phone to make a terrrrrrible impression on some hot bitch you want to fuck? call me later, when you're less busy. like when you're taking a shit. grrr.

plus, he sort of sounded like a homo.

seriously, aren't i too awesome for this? and i have to go out with these dudes. right? i mean, i owe it to you guys or something, right? FUCK. 1 i'm boring. 2 no one worthwhile is asking me out. 3 if you want me to write about where to get a delicious gyro or the new shampoo i'm in love with as i'm trying to grow out my ridiculous hair or how much money i spend on fancy socks (really, it's a sickness), FINE. but i bet that's not all you want to hear about. so i have to go out and do some shit i guess.

and this includes wasting my time with dudes not worth an expertly lined eye or a kitten-heeled shoe. i get more dressed up to spend three hours curled up on rachel's couch than i plan on doing for this dinner. i did the laundry yesterday so that i could have the most possible "you should pay for my dinner" options, but i was too bored to even look through my fucking clothes and decided just to wear a black t-shirt and dark jeans like i always fucking wear. snooze.

but can i just say that i am SO NOT EXCITED? last night ray ray was talking about how let down she was after this dude turned out to be not as fabulous as she'd hoped, and i was jealous because i wish i could even muster up the energy to hope for anything. at this point i'm just like "tick tock when are you going to show me what a bag of ass you really are?" wasting all this awesome on a dude who doesn't read books (i asked) and has already said, "can i ask you something without you [sic] getting mad?" i said "everything makes me fucking mad," and he obviously got the hint, sparing me from some ridiculous line of questioning about getting fucked in the asshole at the sybaris or whatever it is lame dudes think is tittilating getting-to-know-you chit-chat.

i have a plan, though. i'm going to see how much free shit i can get out of these dudes without giving up any cookies. because I CAN'T EVER FUCK ANYONE DUMB EVER AGAIN. unless he pays for it. that's what i've decided. that i'm fucking finished giving up tasty treats to dudes who aren't even as interesting as an informercial for free. i'm not on some pretty woman ho shit, but no one gets to see the inside of my apartment for less than three hundred bucks. cumulative. dinners, drinks, movies, WHATEVER. i'll bring a notebook and a calculator on my dates to keep track. i'm not going to tell them, mind you, just keep a running tab in these squishy old mind grapes and the minute the slot machine chimes 3 BILLS! and three popped cherries pop up in the windows i'll introduce him to the limitless bounty that is my bag of tricks.

i'm hoping this means i won't have to have sex with any of these idiots, as dumb and broke are often cozy little bedfellows. i should also say that if i have to pay for anything EVER, i'm NEVER going to have sex with that dude. this should be interesting, to say the least. i told rachel to go out with that boring dude she hated a second time because he picked a delicious, fancy place AND PAID, and what's the harm in eating a couple of arctic chars across from a vapid short dude who is the human equivalent of drying paint? but she is principled, and doesn't want to waste her time. all i HAVE is time to waste, and how better to waste it than pounding shots of patron on some annoying dude's tab then going home to drunk text someone tastier?

and i don't ever worry about "owing" anyone anything, as if the price of a couple drinks and a cheeseburger really warrants entrance behind my meat curtain. pffft. upon hearing my plan, davey said, "i'd kick your goddamned ass if you made me spend more than fifty bucks on you and i didn't at least get to finger bang you in the car." oh, well. that's why i carry a KNIFE. let the games begin.

Monday, April 26, 2010

tag team wrestling.

sorry this is late, but i was in the hospital. too bad i didn't die.
i'm going to start banging my drum early and often this time. let's just say this: if you have never seen or heard me read before, you are missing the fuck OUT. i'm not going to beg, because fuck degrading myself. just rest with the knowledge that whatever you opt to do instead of laughing your balls off as my dulcet tones caress your eardrums is not nearly as fucking awesome. i'm a goddamned winner, do you hear me? i'm a formidable opponent onstage, and everything i do is made of awesome. i am also a prodigious talent. that said, i don't care about anything anymore. so if you don't come, it's totally cool. know that you will have missed more than i have.

one of the people on that poster is me. yes, my christian name is jacob knabb. i wasn't going to tell you, but i feel like we've reached a point in our relationship where i can be completely honest. also, my blindness comes courtesy of syphilis, not some freak looking into the sun accident like i told you before we slept together. sorry i made your pee burn. anyslut, i'm also doing some women in comedy show thing in the summer, and putting up my very own show in the fall. in other words, i'm about to be too famous to answer your stupid texts about algebra homework and ridiculous dudes. this is your last shot to get in on the ground floor, children. once i'm famous i'm only taking calls from heavyweights.

i'm working on this new cold and aloof thing. because i have been getting my feelings hurt all over the fucking place lately, and that shit is SO not cute. i'm too rad for that. cara's self-helpful ass gave me this book about not letting dumb shit cut your ass too deep and going with the flow, and i read that shit and took notes and everything. so i'm an impenetrable wall of steel right now, obviously. (it's totally not working so far.) you'll probably think this is dumb, and i TOTALLY don't care, but i meant what i said when i wrote that reading "he's just not that into you" totally changed my perspective. if you're making fun it's only because you're an asshole who's too afraid to admit that someone just might not like your ass. and that goes for men AND women. because bitches are shady fucking liars, too. hold on while i find that old shit i wrote.

this is from my post "the dirtiest bird":
i would really like to give thanks for that dude with the crazy hair who wrote "he's just not that into you," because before i read that shit, i kind of really didn't fucking know. i was the queen of excuses, both making and accepting the most ridiculous explanations for why dudes treated me like dogshit. i got on the bandwagon late, but i read that book in one fucking sitting and it completely changed my views on and standards for my interpersonal relationships with men.

sometimes a motherfucker has to hit you over the head with something before you really understand, and that book was the brick to the skull that finally catapulted me out of my dude coma. because it's so easy to give some asshole the benefit of the doubt, especially when the alternative could be such a poor reflection on me. much easier to believe "he's really busy at work" than it is to swallow "i'm not important enough to call for two weeks." sometimes you just need to see in black and white that, despite how sad and lonely it might make you feel, that is unacceptable behavior and that idiot deserves his walking papers.

so i'm not accepting anymore bullshit, you fucking bitches. if you're not asking me out, i'm over you. if you're not calling me, i'm over you. if you're not dating me, i'm over you. if you only want to see me when you're drunk, i'm over you. if you don't want to fuck me, i'm over you. if you don't want to marry me, i'm over you. if you're breaking up with me, i'm over you. if you disappear on me, i'm over you. if you're unavailable, i'm over you. if you're selfish, i'm over you. if you don't love me in a tangible goddamned way, i'm totally fucking over you. and if you hit me, you better kill me, because i will fucking destroy you.

just so you know, no more stomachaches over stupid shit. you had your chance. my new motto is "so the fuck what?" now let's get on with this dirty business. the typeface is cccrazy, but i can't fix it. blame blogger.

Hello everyone. I am Big Love, and I will be assisting in this little fiasco. Qualifications, you might ask? I have a dick.  In all honesty I am Sam’s friend. I read her shit all the time and we share our own little “Big Love” relationship without all the sex. I am still trying to figure out that one as well, so bear with me.

Look, I will tell it how it is, and try to make it funny, relatable, and, above all else, honest. I won't sugarcoat anything and if it hurts I am sorry. If you don’t like it, DEAL. And if you do like it, great for both of us. The way I see it there are three types of men in the world: 1) men who follow their dicks, 2) men who use their head in combination with their dick and give a shit, and 3) just plain morons. Somehow though, guy number two usually ends up getting fucked in the deal. He's the winner of the bunch, but ladies always choose the others for some reason.

Look, we work hard to listen, relate, show you our softer sides, and actually be intelligent, but somehow we still get fucked over for the guy that treats you girls like shit. And if you are THAT DUDE reading this then yes, FUCK YOU. it’s hard enough finding a good woman, let alone one you haven't fucked up for the rest of us. So, without further ado, bring on the questions.

i just have to stick the tip in for one second here before we continue. 1 it is totally big love's fault that we continue to maintain a sexless relationship. what is he trying figure out? his penis + my vagina = problem solved. bear with THAT. (just kidding. we friends and shit.) 2 i don't understand the whole "moody, elusive, unavailable" dude thing, either. that's why i have never been a fan of johnny depp, because i secretly believe that's how he is. and i don't have time for that. if a nice, handsome shit-giver ever followed his dick to me, i would collapse in a fit of happiness giggles and never stop darning his socks and making him pancakes. 3 i've never fucked a dude over EVER. just want to put that out there in case karma is listening. come on, universe. drop a falling star on me instead of all these fucking basteroids. okay, then. let's do dis for reals.

I’ve lived with my guy for years. We’ve talked about marriage, but he’s very close to his mom, and I’ve noticed that he’ll follow her advice after ignoring mine — even if it’s the same advice! Is there anything I can do to make him stop turning to Mom when he should be turning to me?

Easy, here is what I want you to do: the next time you two are getting intimate (yes guys, ready to fuck) feel around his belly button and check to see if the umbilical cord is still attached. Kidding. Here is the real deal. He will always be like this until his mother is gone. Some guys are just momma's boys no matter what. It's crazy, I know, but they never got over the puppy dog phase.  For the guys, this is really kind of pathetic. I mean, we all want our mothers and parents to approve of who we are with and what we do, but you can get a drink of water by yourself without asking. The best thing you can do is SUCK UP! No, not to him, but to his mother. If you really want to marry this guy you need to "act" like his mom in front of her. That way she will know her baby is taken care of just like she would, and she can step out of the way. Focus on her.

i just threw up. for cereal. i would rather eat a bowl of razors coated with AIDS than suck up to some asshole's stupid mom. barf. if his mother is a gutter-mouthed drunk who eats too much and listens to her music too loud, then maybe i'd consider "acting" like her. is that whole thing about dudes wanting to end up with someone just like their mom really true? if so, i need to make some fucking amendments to my eharmony profile. meet samantha, a 30 year old cat lady in chicago who loves music, writing about ho shit, and crushing your dreams before you're even old enough to drive a car. she's looking for someone to: brow beat, hen peck, castigate, scold, and put her cigarettes out on when spanking just doesn't work anymore. she is good at: setting curfews, making sloppy joes, disapproving of your hair/clothes/friends, and attempting to help with your trig homework when she has no idea what the fuck she's talking about. her ideal mate: is under four feet tall, doesn't have all of his adult teeth yet, and can dump his own potty because she thinks that shit is disgusting. also, she makes a mean grilled cheese, and she is willing to kiss all of your owwies and boo boos when you fall down and hurt yourself. bed-wetters need not apply.

i don't care about a man's problems, so this shit wouldn't bother me that much. i have enough of my own shit. hang that albatross around someone else's neck. also, i like a dude who's into his mom. NOT a mama's boy, mind you, but a gentleman who is kind and respectful to his mother can holler at these chonies anytime. because isn't that indicative of the relationship he's going to have with a girlfriend? maybe not, but if he doesn't act like all women are good-for-nothing skanks that's a start. anyway, i just don't care. and neither should you, gorgeous. go back to thinking about project runway and cupcake day at dinkel's and boning christian bale with the lights on like i do.

drapermy was a little salty at me last week, i think, because i glossed over the fact that he is a sensitive creature with feelings who cries real tears just like i do, and not some ladykilling android who doesn't care when his wiring and hard drive are smashed to pieces by some female terminator. and i felt bad for having been callous, because i care about that little mancake probably a little more than is healthy or emotionally responsible, and don't like knowing that he's upset with me. i don't know if he's really mad, though, because he didn't really tell me. maybe he called his mom.

I have an on-again, off-again relationship with this guy. The main reason why it’s been so rocky is because when we’re on, he’s seldom able to perform in bed, and it gets both of us so frustrated. However, when we just hook up during "off" times, he has no problems. I really think this is the only obstacle to our being together, so is there anything I can do to fix it?

Sam, are you seriously giving me these easy ass questions? Okay okay okay here is your answer: STOP FUCKING HIM! Look, he can’t get it up when you're "dating" because it isn’t a challenge. When you are not "dating" he is not attached and can do what he wants. Yes, he is this much of an asshole. Second of all, and hear me on this please, THIS IS NOT THE ONLY OBSTACLE. If everything else was good you would still be together and not writing this email. I mean, shit, they do make Viagra, and anyone can get that shit. You are a fling to him and that is all you ever will be. Oh, and if he reads this and gets pissed…I can kick his ass, so deal with the truth, dude.

man, it just hit me what my problem with men might be. omg, kittens, i am having a MAJOR moment of clarity right now. I AM NOT ENOUGH OF A CHALLENGE. now let's not go crazy here. i certainly am challenging: i'll challenge a dude's manhood, his sexual virility, his vocabulary, his intestinal fortitude, and his overall general knowledge and skills. like the SAT, but sexier. and better smelling. i am obviously making it too easy for these dudes. returning their phone calls (i NEVER answer my phone EVER), being kind, making plans, acting interested...who the fuck knew that all of these things would drive a man away?! all of that being nice and accommodating was just driving them further away from my bed. god, because who would want to ever be with someone who is sweet and gives a shit about you? pshaw. i'm obviously cray-cray.

so from now on these dudes have to work. I AM NEVER CALLING ANOTHER DUDE EVER AGAIN. and i mean that shit. i'm not going to burn a single calorie dialing some hot dickbag's number who doesn't really give a shit. he can call me, because i'm BUSY. and then he can leave me a message i won't bother to return. that should save me a shit ton of anytime minutes. see, this plan is not only going to guarantee me romantic success, is also economically prudent. huzzah! i'm not going to respond to a single goddamned email and pretend i don't see my goddamned text messages. speaking of, i got a text from hot weekend a couple days ago saying "what's good, baby?" and i texted back "DEEZ NUTZ." and i deleted everything he texted thereafter without reading it. man, fuck that dude. literal weeks have gone by. don't bullshit a bullshitter. just go the fuck away. plus, he had TINY BALLS. you have to be ten different varieties of amazing for me to tolerate THAT. pssssshaw.

the lobster texted me, too. A MONTH LATER. and you want to know what he said? "damn sam, it's been a long time. where have you been? what have you been doing?" oh, you know me. gallivanting across europe, jet-setting in the mediterranean, hiking the outback, gestating your fetus...the fun never ends! pffft. bitch, i haven't been doing SHIT. which you would have known if you hadn't let a MONTH GO BY. where have you been, what have you been doing? i'm just sitting here watching my fingernails grow and listening to helen's punk ass bat shit around my apartment and waiting for you to pick up the goddamned phone. (i never had sex with the lobster, i just like the word gestate. it makes me sound all smart and stuff.) some dude asked me out to dinner this week, and i'm going to go. and i'm going to shake his hand after the meal, then get myself home. BY MYSELF. and i'm not going to call him afterward. or ever. i should have a husband by sunday.

so, angelface, you know the answer. stop seeing this dude. laurage and i were on the train after work the other day, and we decided (for ME, of course, because that bitch already has a man) that i'm going to be done with a person the SECOND it ceases to be fun. for cereal. and "rocky," "frustrated," and "obstacle" are hardly the funnest, sexiest words in the dicktionary. send that asshole packing.

I’m a touchy-feely flirt — I’ll rest my hand on a guy’s arm or touch him in some innocent way. But dudes take it as a green light to drunkenly be all over me. How do I convey that I am flirting but don’t want to hook up?

Stop it with your whorish touch. No seriously, everything we read, are told, and listen to tells us that touching is a sign that a woman is really really into you. And that means that we are going to try for sex right away. I know, women touch more than guys do so you are used to it. But guys hardly get that shit, and when we do we think its an open door and we can just jump through with reckless abandon. Use your words more, and be more subtle. Learn to communicate with us without touching us. Hell, most of need our minds stimulated more than our dicks anyway, so try that first.

i only know how to touch people inappropriately, so i avoid putting my hands on anyone's anything. now where are these dudes who need mental stimulation? because in 99 out of 100 instances, the penis does the picking. says patty. maybe i've been watching too much millionaire matchmaker. that show is fucking poison, right? every time i watch that silly shit my self-esteem goes down, like, THIRTY points. that bullshit is demoralizing.

anyway, i'm going to start marketing myself as a mental stimulator. especially since the minute i put one of these ham hands on some dude's arm he'd bruise. all i'd have to do is be smart and tell jokes, and since that's already ALL I FUCKING DO it shouldn't be so hard.

this stupid bitch is wearing me out, though. dudes are disgusting pigs from the pit of hell, so OF COURSE the second you show them anything other than your ice queen facade they immediately jump to the conclusion that you want to make grass sandwiches with them. even when all you were trying to be was "innocent." i obviously need to go to the school of delusion most of you assholes graduated from. if a dude touches me i assume first that it's some sort of charity touch, that he can somehow tell that it doesn't happen that often, or that he's being helpful, because i've managed to get mayonnaise on my shoulder and he's trying to help conceal the embarrassing grease stain.

your hoe ass knows what you're doing. cock-teasing a dude out of a few amaretto sours before trying to go home to the boyfriend you told you were "just going out with the girls." pshaw. have fun getting raped.

Recently, I've been getting so unbelievably wet during sex that we have to stop and actually dry off! It's gross. Help!

Let me say this slowly: DO. NOTHING. The extra lubrication is welcome. I know it's messy and kind of a pain after, but isn’t that what sex really is? Look, there is nothing wrong at all with a woman being moist, we like it.  In fact, it is a turn on for us if we can help make you that slippery. If you are really worried about it and if it really bothers you that much there are a couple things you can by to help. They make plastic sheets now for regular size beds, and you can’t even tell they're plastic. Plus, they can be washed. They also have pads that collect and hold liquid, and I mean massive amounts, that you can wash and reuse as well. Think of it this way, wouldn’t you rather have it too wet, rather than not wet enough?  I mean, come on now. OUCH.

dry fucking is the worst. or so i've heard, because i ain't got them kind of problems. my body is a WASTELAND of scar tissue and crazy cell counts and anemia, but the one part that has always performed at the top of her game is my bajingo. she's a veritable slip-n-slide of sexual awesomeness.

plastic sheets, reusable absorbent pads? how in the fuck do you KNOW this shit, big love?! what am i going to see the next time i walk into your bedroom? i love it when nice dudes have a little secret freak tucked away under their button-down shirts and sensible shoes. i'm going to make this dude give me a little look-see inside his goody drawer; i'll let you know what kind of dirty filthy nastiness i find.

anyway, babygirl, this is SO NOT GROSS. keep a box of kleenex or a towel next to your bed like the rest of us, and mop it up as needed. and ENJOY IT WHILE YOU CAN. when you're sixty-five and setting fucking forest fires with your pussy every time you walk from the house to the car, you'll look back on these days and want to cry.

fo rilla. it's like a tinderbox down there. ask your grandma.

My boyfriend and I think it would be exciting to have sex in a public place, but we're afraid of getting caught. Have any advice?

Don’t do it. Nobody wants to see that shit, and if they do you might be a little scared afterward. If your boyfriend is a cop this shouldn’t be an issue. If he is not there are a couple things you can do. Start trying things slow. How about in front of a window with the shades open (privacy law).  If you really want to do it in public then I would suggest a bathroom in a NICE, CLEAN bar, or someplace like that. Other than that just be adventurous and wear clothing that you can either keep on or put on quickly if need be.

did i pick this question before? sometimes when i'm going through them i fucking forget. so i'll keep this quick, since i've probably said it thirty times already: i don't believe in fucking outside. next question.

My vulva looks really weird because one lip is longer and more wrinkled-looking than the other. I have been putting off doing anything sexual with my boyfriend because I'm embarrassed about it. Is there anything I can do to fix it?

Um, they have surgery for that. Really, another easy one, Sam? All right here is the simple and easiest answer I can give: Don’t worry about it. We are just happy to be down there and enjoying ourselves as much as you are. We could give a shit what it looks like; unless it's green, moldy, and has teeth, we will be fine with it. And if he isn’t it's most likely because he likes playing for the other team. Don’t be so self-conscience, we aren’t. Have you ever really looked at a set of balls? I mean come on, most of the time one is bigger than the other. It’s a medical fact.

want to know another medical fact? I LOVE BALLS. did you hear that noise? that was the sound of my vagina BURSTING with glee. i'm not even going to address that wrinkly lip business. i bet you're only worried about because some stupid y chromosome pointed it out. and fuck him. grow your pubes out. PROBLEM SOLVED.

instead, i am going to rhapsodize about testicles. every time a dude disrobes at the foot of my bed and has a duffel bag full of plums swinging between his legs, an angel gets its wings. or at least samantha gets hers. vampire asked me a long time ago just what it is about testicles that are SO GREAT that they warrant constant mention in my blog. 1st of all, this is MY shit. i write about diarrhea and big scrotums and whatever else i fucking want, and if you don't like it? off you go. 2nd, giant, manly, virile balls are HILARIOUS. they just look so dumb. and big. and DUMB. they're, like, the grossest part of the human anatomy. and they smell like feet and goat piss when they haven't been washed. they just hang there, all misshapen and weird, wrinkled and stinky, and if you even graze one in the wrong way a dude's knees will buckle like nancy kerrigan's. that's incredible! if you kicked me in my vagina right now i would maybe flinch, then get up and beat the snot out of you and call carol to blow up your fucking house when i was finished. not so with my male counterparts.

now don't get mad at me, but this one time p was talking so much MAD CRAZY SHIT for a dude not wearing any pants, and when i got tired of listening to it i bit him in the nuts. HARD. with all the strength my jaw could muster. i was like a pit bull. i was maybe 21 at the time, much more fearless than i am now. but i also keep knives strategically hidden around my apartment. and by the time he swung at me i had a switchblade at his femoral artery and was ready to take it to the next level. he conceded, of course.

that was the only time in my life i have abused a precious set of testes. i usually hold and caress them as one would a baby bird or a newborn kitten. right before i start laughing at how ridiculous they look and sniffing around to figure out what variety of cheese they smell like. man, i love balls.

My man wants me to touch his perineum when we're fooling around. Where is it exactly, and what do I do with it once I find it?

Wow, I had to look this one up actually to find out what it really was. And, to my surprise, it is just a fancy word for TAINT. If you don’t know what that is you weren’t a kid in the 80s or later, so you should really just stop trying to do new kinky stuff. It's all about pressure in this area. Not enough and it does nothing. Too much and you may be kicked in the face. Act like it is your clit, and don’t beat the shit out of it. Oh, and careful if you inch back too far. You might get kicked in the face for a different reason.

NOTHING IS WORSE than a dude who abuses your soft ladymeat the way he would his penis. dudes are downright mean to their little manfriends when it comes to secret solo action, and i'd prefer my Va G be treated like a baby unicorn or something, stroked and petted with the utmost care. it's delicate down there guys! be nice to her!

i like a dude who likes a finger in his bum, so i'm no stranger to the taint. if you're worried about being too rough, use your ring finger, because it isn't as strong as the others. is that a fucking coincidence, OR WHAT? your wedding ring goes on the least hearty digit on your entire goddamned hand?! no wonder it's a dyyyying institution. (here's another tip, because i love you: you should also use your ring finger when applying undereye concealer so you don't cake that shit on. there is nothing grosser than a bitch with blindingly white, improperly applied concealer. ooh, and one more: concealer goes on OVER your foundation and UNDER whatever you set it with. this radiant beauty doesn't grow on trees. i read magazines and shit. takes notes.)

so the taint is the stretch of skin between his glorious testicles and his butthole, and you should probably ask HIM how he likes it manipulated. i always press it really hard when he's least expecting it to try to get him to poop himself. oh, i keed. some sort of tickle/stroke move is probably best, or you could really make his day by putting your mouth there, but i'm sure you puritans aren't into that. then slowly inch your way back to his shit pussy, slide your finger in, and hook it so you get his prostate. at first he's going to act all shocked and violated. hold your ground, sister, and keep your finger in there. just pat him on the head with your free hand and say, "liking this doesn't make you gay." (even though it TOTALLY DOES.) that should settle him down. there's no way on earth that asking your lady, "hey, would you mind touching my perineum?" (i hope he said it all clinical like that) is NOT a precursor to backdoor action. i refuse to believe it.

what he wants is a forefinger up in his poop shoot, but is too much of a wimp to ask you to give him one. and i probably shouldn't have to say this, but try to make sure he takes a number 2 before you get all this started. finger chunks are the WORST.

Sometimes my vagina makes a farting sound during sex. What's going on, and should I be worried?

You are normal. This happens. Plus you can laugh about it, and maybe even break the ice. Look, air gets stuck in places, and when you shove a piece of man meat in there it has to go someplace. We all need to loosen up more during sex; we make weird noises, say stupid shit, and it's messy. But isn’t that why it's fun, especially if it's with someone you like doing that with? I know I know, mushy stuff. But oh well, deal with it. Everyone wants great sex with someone they care for and who cares for them.

i might start fucking crying. an answer that could have wound up in a queef joke wasteland turned out to be the sweetest, most beautiful fucking thing i've ever read in my whole life. le sigh, big love. and i mean that shit. i gave my number to some young dude just because he asked for it (imagine that), and he's texted me nothing but "hey, what are you up to?" for two days STRAIGHT. seriously. multiple times a day. i know i'm all exciting and fabulous and shit, but EVEN I just don't do that much. this weekend i: got drunk, ate some chex mix, made an appointment with my gynecologist, spent three hundred dollars at target only to get home and realize i forgot five essential things (i remembered vibrator batteries, though), watched a marathon of the hills on mtv (that justin bobby really winds my goddamned watch), redesigned my bathroom with the help of cb2 and the company store, sucked down a dozen diet cokes, changed her majesty's litterbox, watched jackie brown a million more times, and did the laundry. and i guess that sounds like a lot, but 1 i took friday off to avert an impending nervous breakdown thus had some extra time to do shit and 2 i can't text someone "i just ate some chex mix."

i just texted him back "this is totally boring and you should try to be interesting" because, like i said, i don't care anymore. and he's probably a toolbox. sex has to be funny and fun, otherwise all the crying and explaining could really be a fucking bummer. here's another thing i just decided: i want some caring sex now. even though i get totally sketched out looking in someone's eyes for too long. add that to my 2010 list. since i'm retarded and sex noises and stomach noises and shit noises don't bother me in the slightest, especially when i'm making them, my advice is to just roll with it. or, as robyn said so eloquently last night, POWER THROUGH. now let's all go mush it up.

My boyfriend needs fast thrusting during intercourse to achieve orgasm, but I like it slow. Plus, it takes me longer to climax. What can we do that will give us both pleasure?

Um, is he really that much of an asshole? Look, every relationship is about two things: communication (yes, the most important part) and compromise. If he truly is so much of an asshole that he is not worried about YOU first and foremost then what are you doing? That comment, by the way, goes for all ladies. Really, you're going to put up with that shit when there are good ass men out there willing to do almost whatever you ask? He needs to be willing to take his time and make sure you are satisfied before he starts pumping away like a donkey kicking a kid in the face. I know, nice visual there. If he can't keep it up that long, then see my Viagra comment from above. I mean, anyone can get it.

where, big love, the fuck are these good ass dudes who are willing to do whatever i ask? and why have i only met dudes who are worried about THEMSELVES first and foremost? also, can you please introduce me to someone who both takes his time and makes sure that i'm satisfied? i feel like every dude thinks he's that dude, because i've done a pretty good job sampling the single male population, and not a single one of these specimen has turned up YET. i know a lot of dudes, and every one of them thinks that HE is a nice, perfect gentleman. pfft.

my real-life, often-practiced solution is this: MAKE HIM STOP and if he acts like he doesn't hear you say, "this is rape now." that'll get his ass. i never ever let someone do something to me that i don't like. really, what is the POINT? so he can roll over after and think, "damn, that chick is awesome. i didn't even have to do anything for HER" while you masturbate yourself to sleep? fuck that shit. besides, if you don't correct it the first time, he will always try to fuck you like that. and you'll weaken your argument if you let him get away with it before. that's why, kittens, the very first time some dude starts fucking you wrong you have to put a stop to it right then and there and retrain him the right way.

also, do yourselves a favor women and GET OVER that whole pleasuring him thing. he'll be fine. GET YOURS.

My new guy's penis is enormous, and my mouth is tiny. When I tried to give him oral sex, I practically choked. How do I do it without gagging? Please help!

Practice makes perfect. All right, asshole comment out of the way. There are a couple of things you can do. First and foremost, use more hand. Yes, practice just sucking the tip, which is where most of the nerve endings are anyway. However, while doing this use your hand like you are giving a hand job. Work that shit like it is going out of style. The must-have for this, however, is lubrication. Spit on it, use lube, hell do anything, just make sure it is not dry. Because FUCK does that hurt. Also, you can work on stopping that gag reflex by pushing your limits every time you give head. But make sure you haven’t eaten right beforehand. That can gets really gross.

have i ever told you dudes exactly how i fractured my nose when i was nineteen? let's just say that voracious jack-sucking is fucking dangerous. you should have heard the story i manufactured for the ER doctor. PRICELESS.

I can climax during penetration but not during oral sex. I enjoy what my boyfriend is doing, and it always feels like I might orgasm, but I never do. Help!

It will never happen, you are a lost cause. It sucks I know, but fuck it, just give more head. Okay, not really. The biggest thing you need to do is relax. It's a complete mental block for you, and that's all it is. Let yourself go, and get lost in the moment. And if it is something he is doing than tell him, fuck, better yet show him. There truly is nothing hotter when you are going down on a woman than when she grabs your head and just uses it the way she likes. We like the assistance, it helps us know what truly turns you on and how we can please you. And yes I mean that. If your guy thinks otherwise he is a real asshole.

so big love is one of the nicest dudes i've ever fucking met. he's smart, he's handsome, he's thoughtful, he's really fucking sweet, and he's drunk all the fucking time. he's not a huge weirdo, either. and i'm 100% positive that he means what he said about pleasing a girl. i'm about to say something i don't think i've ever said here: I AM NOT A HUGE FAN OF BEING EATEN OUT. there, i said it. now you know i want to say it's because dudes do it wrong, so let's go with that. no, that would make me an asshole.

1 i'm self-conscious. about the taste or if the hair looks right or if he can smell my butt or whatever other thing that is totally beyond my control. and i know it's dumb and there's nothing wrong (i know because the gyne told me, thankyouverymuch), but i still get weirded out. it's a lot of pressure, man. dorito used to keep his glasses on while he went to work down there, and that made me so anxious i almost hyperventilated. but he also got me to nirvana, so maybe he knew something i didn't. hair was the last one who had his face in my pretty place, and i just could not finish. and he's still alive, so i guess it doesn't smell too ripe.

2 i have a tricky good spot. it's not that hard to find, but for the sub-human pieces of garbage who have tried and failed to get it just right it has proven to be elusive. plus, sometimes i get leg cramps from all of these fucking drugs i take, and the position that would feel the absolute best would break a normal human male's motherfucking neck.

3 every dude on the planet swears that he is SO FUCKING GOOD at it, and refuses to take direction. for cereal. i am not even kidding. EVERY SINGLE DUDE thinks that he alone is king cunnilingus and is so goddamned proud of himself, between my legs gnashing his teeth and biting my clit off and doing that stupid thing where he licks right on your pee hole super fast. why have i had more than one person DO THAT to me?! fucking stop it, you neanderthals! who taught you that? seriously, WHO? i want her number, so i can go KILL HER. some dumb bitch was like, "oh yeah, dart your tongue in and out of your mouth as fast as you can, like a lizard, against my urethra," and now you think we ALL like that bullshit. you are going to fuck around and end up with a mouth full of pee, and trust me when i say that that shit SUCKS ASS. she probably told you to blow air on it, too. IDIOT. stop it. stop that. stop this. STOP DOING THIS.

you wonder why it takes so long, eh? why you have to be down there for the duration of a fucking football game, eyes burning with your tongue near paralysis? because you do dumb shit like STOP, TALK, MOVE, and BLOW AIR. if, while giving you the best blowjob you've ever had in your entire life, i just stopped cold and dipped your penis in liquid nitrogen, how long do you think it might take for you to have an orgasm? an hour? two hours? THREE DAYS? because that is what it fucking feels like when you blow frigid air on something wet. that something, in this case my gorgeous g spot, stops working. then you have to start all over. don't ask if i like it or how good it feels or whatever other dumb thing you want to say. if i hate it, i'll punch you in the top of your idiot head. and trust me, if you knew how stupid you looked with vaginal lubricant slathered all over your face you'd shut the fuck up and keep your head down.

because THAT is what WORKS. and if you don't like what he's doing, you don't have to let him. this is america, bitch. that shit's in the constitution.

Okay. I think that is it, Sam. Next time, if there is a next time, hit me with some harder shit. Ladies, there are really good guys out there, it just takes time to find them, and don’t be as superficial as you think WE are. Give some guy you wouldn’t normally date a chance, you might be surprised. I mean shit, if a “Bitch has to eat,” don’t we have to supply something worth eating?

"hit me with some harder shit?" i've got that inscribed on my headboard. and yum to that supplying something worth eating business. you dudes should take a lesson. now where did i leave my spoon...?